


You Fight For The Heat All Summer

by SensibleNonsense



Category: Raven Cycle - Maggie Stiefvater
Genre: M/M, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Prettily-Worded Filth, Touch-Starved
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-25
Updated: 2019-05-25
Packaged: 2020-03-17 03:03:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 858
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18956542
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SensibleNonsense/pseuds/SensibleNonsense
Summary: Possibly, there are springs running beneath the earth, little sources of energy he could have tapped into.  Possibly, Adam is a plant that can survive on sips alone — moments of affection and physicality nourishing him just long enough to reach his goal: ground that the sweat off his own brow has made fertile.





	You Fight For The Heat All Summer

**Author's Note:**

> WELCOME TO BIBLE STUDY, WE'RE ALL CHILDREN OF JESUS.
> 
> Haven't written anything in absolute years -- done gone and sold my soul to the visual arts instead.

Work is Adam’s north star. Or rather, his sun. Like a plant breaking from cracked and barren ground, he stretches desperately towards the summit of graduation. The degree (Magna Cum Laude, Aglionby Academy, no less. Accepted full-ride to an Ivy League, don’t you know.) nothing but the first hungry step in a steep climb from beneath the thick Henrietta dust. 

If his ambition — his path onward — is the sun, then Ronan is the rain. Not the goal or the guide, but an unlikely gift. Possibly, there are springs running beneath the earth, little sources of energy he could have tapped into. Possibly, Adam is a plant that can survive on sips alone — moments of affection and physicality nourishing him just long enough to reach his goal: ground that the sweat off his own brow has made fertile. 

So it’s unexpected, unplanned for, and fairly perturbing to find himself, with increasing regularity, soaked to the roots.

Ronan, like the dream rain that he created, aches in every sense, both good and bad. He’s grieving, still. It doesn’t just leave one day, and it never will. It changes with the seasons and with unexpected events, stumbling over memories in the house in which he grew up. And he’s tumultuous, in a way that has nothing to do with grief, but is simply his nature. 

Adam is a hungry animal — they both are — but Adam has been starving for longer, and he can’t quite get his fill. On the porch of the barns, in the door in the space above St. Agnes, closing time after a solo shift at Boyd’s garage. From zero to sixty, he attaches himself to Ronan. The too casual arrival, a too casual exchange of the events of their days, and then this. Pushing backwards into private corners, fitting his gangly limbs into Ronan’s negative spaces, working his nimble fingers past Ronan’s belt, licking and nipping the vibrations from the fair skin at his throat. And Ronan meets him, every time. 

Every brush of fingers, every firm grip, is absolution. Every touch of his mouth, a brand. Ronan accepts his touches, his hunger, gives it back just as good. He’s afraid he might shake apart at the seams. Creatures like him, made only from dust and furious focus, how can they stand in the force of a downpour?

The first time Ronan eats his ass, he thinks he might cry. Ronan: on his knees, only half human. Adam: on his elbows, human in the extreme. His knees tremble. Ronan’s thumbs spread his cheeks, exposing him, and he allows this vulnerability in a way he could with no one else. 

He begins with broad strokes, the flat of his tongue lapping over Adam’s most unworthy part, over and over. Then the tip, circling slowly. Poking, demanding. Wet, so wet. His lips suck, making embarrassingly loud noises, and works his way inside — shocking, unimaginable. Spread and flexing. Adam’s spine is melting. 

It’s not enough, not even close. Even with Ronan’s roaming hands (large, calloused, gentle — across chest, stomach, sides, thighs) and intimately sucking mouth. He drips and he trembles, and between shivers, sighs, and groans, a sob escapes.

This catches Ronan’s attention. He raises his head and crawls over him, prodding at Adam until he rolls onto his back. Ronan settles half on top of him, dragging his fingers through Adam’s sweat-dampened hair, and kissing him first on the temple and then on the mouth.

Adam can taste their union on his tongue — the strange, though not entirely unpleasant, taste of his own body, mixed with the ever-intoxicating taste of Ronan himself. Ronan wraps a hand around him, grip firm. Making this feel like a pause, not an end. A pause, not a failure. 

“You like that?” Ronan’s voice is hoarse, words ghosting across skin. He can feel the muscles jump as Adam drifts his hand up the soft, sparse hairs and hard muscle of his thigh, gripping his erection back and stroking leisurely.

“Yeah,” says Adam. Then again, with more feeling. “Yeah. It’s, uh…” he trails off. He swears he can feel Ronan smile, nose and lips trailing across his hairline as he starts to stroke Adam, a pointedly slow pace. “Let me try it on you sometime.”

“Sure,” Ronan agrees easily, pulling at Adam again until they’re pressed together, chest to chest. They get each other off like that, with their hands. Breath and limbs tangling at intervals. Afterwards, side by side, they take a minute to come down, shroud themselves back within their own bodies. 

It’s a somewhat uncomfortable feeling, being drenched, feeling full, after such a long drought. It’s too much. It’s never enough.

He rolls himself over suddenly, landing halfway atop Ronan, eliciting a grunt, and pulls the blankets over them both. Ronan mutters something that might be "fucker," and wraps his arms around him, one across his shoulders, reaching to stroke through the still-damp hair at the nape of his neck, the other across his lower back, thumb tracing slow circles into the skin at the sharp jut of his hip.

He stills, for a moment, and allows himself to soak it in.

**Author's Note:**

> Thinking about doing a companion piece from Ronan's POV.


End file.
